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With a groan, you rolled over, burying your face into a pillow in embarrassment. Just as you began closing your eyes, you caught a name- your name.

"I wish they were with me now." Bob's thoughts entered your own. Even from here, you could get a hazy picture through his own eyes as he tugged a pillow to his chest. "If they were, I would do this..."

Oh no. No. No. No. Was this about to get weird? Sure, Bob could be a bit awkward at times, but you never suspected him of being some perv.

Instead, fear gripped you, followed by a sense of peace flooding every inch of your body as he hugged the pillow pretending it was you. For a moment, the connection was so strong you felt as if his arms ghosted around you, pulling you in gently. The sensation was odd, nearly making your breath go away.

Images filled your mind like a glitching movie from his imagination. Nothing weird at all, actually. Images of Bob gently pushing your hair back while you smiled in your sleep. The two of you curled up, watching a movie together in the Tower as you munched on snacks. Taking walks in the snow and laughing. Protecting him from Val, or anyone else who tied to hurt him.

An image of you holding him, as if you would never let go.

Wow, this was just sad. It's heartbreaking to see what Bob thought about- all he wanted was to be accepted.

Was Bob so terrified at night that he was pretending a pillow was a person? Besides, why would he imagine you rather than Yelena? Even if they weren't together like that, they seemed to share some sort of unspoken understanding of one another. The two of you were just teammates who got along well, right?

"You know, I've been meaning to tell you something," he whispered to nobody, almost as if he had practiced this several times. "And it's okay if you don't feel the same, but I r-really want to spend more time with you because I like you..."

His fingers curled around the pillow's fabric gently, caressing the silk almost reverently. Suddenly, he pulled it closer, clinging to the pillow desperately, as if it were a lifeline. Short, rapid breaths escaped him before they finally lulled, his heartbeat slowing down to a calm.

For a moment, your heart nearly stopped in your chest. It took everything in you not to leap out of bed right now, rush to his room in your PJs, and tell him you felt the same. To tell him you would protect him from the nightmares, from the memories that haunted him, and the other person who followed him like a shadow. Honestly, you assumed he would never like you back. The two of you were so different, and he was recovering from so much; it didn't seem like the right time.

"That would never work," he muttered to himself. "She's so amazing...and terrifying. Honestly, I don't think she likes anyone, so why would she like someone like me?" Rolling over, he buried his face in the pillow, mumbling, "She probably likes Bucky instead."

Bucky? No way! He was more like an older brother to you than anything.

"I'm not enough," he thought to himself, "I'll never be enough for her."

Enough! You couldn't take this anymore. Tossing your blanket aside, you marched out of your quarters and down the hall towards his. Taking a deep breath, you knocked on the door.

"Bob? Are you okay? I was up getting something to eat and heard noises," you asked, forcing a casual tone.

"Uhh...I'm fine!" he called out with a hint of embarrassment. There was a shuffle, then he cracked the door open. Sad, brown eyes stared out from the dark, shining with a mix of fear and almost hope. "See? I'm okay," he said awkwardly, giving a crooked smile. "Are you?"

"Bob, if you ever need help or anything," you began, unsure where to go with this. Words weren't exactly your skillset. Not in the way using a blade was. Why was this so much easier in the books you read? "Look, I get it...how the past sticks around. The nightmares."

Bob's eyes widened with understanding, staring a moment quietly. "It never seems to leave, does it?" he said, glancing away and scratching the back of his neck. "Follows you around."

"I can help, if you wanted."

"No, no...I'm fine," Bob began. "Uh, goodnight." Before he could shut the door, you pushed your foot in the crack, stopping it.

"Did you need something?" he asked.

No use beating around the bush. "Do you want me to stay with you tonight?" Bob nodded shyly, letting you step inside.

Tossing the pillow aside, you asked, "Do you want the left or right side of the bed?"

Thanks for reading! Requests always open! Tag list open!

You didn't intend to do it. There was no thought behind the action. A slight scrape of your teeth would have been enough, pressing them lightly against his arm. But that didn't happen, instead, you captured his bicep between your incisors in a more rabid fashion. His skin cuddled around your teeth with the pressure. You were sure it would draw welts. The perfect indentment to form the impression of your bite. A mark of affection.

There was the sound of air being drawn between teeth, a soft hissing noise when you let yourself grind your teeth harder into his arm. "Ah ah," he began pulling away, coaxing you to stand between him and the counter instead of behind him. "What was that for?" he asked, although his smile was unsure. He cupped your face, thumbs pressing against your cheeks and stroking the skin as if to soothe you. "You have teeth like a piranha." That almost caused you to laugh, as if your bite was anything other than something pulled out because of genuine affection. Besides, you could have bitten him harder if. You haven't broken his skin or anything. His thumbs adjusted their pressure enough to feel teeth on the other side of your cheeks while you were looking at the mark on his arm, the indentment of teeth a pale mark.

You adjusted your attention slightly and looked up at him, feeling all warm from his presence. There was still the smell of engine oil clinging to his clothes, something you had grown to love over time. You showed your teeth at his choice of words, a sudden grin and snapped your teeth playfully. He didn't flinch, of course he wouldn't, but there was a change in his smile. It didn't seem so hesitant anymore, it was a little wider and had something playful in it. "You looked so domestic and cute. I wanted to bite you. I couldn't help myself. I wanted to take a bite."

“A bite...” he murmured softly and leaned over to kiss your forehead. The gentle pressure of his lips against your skin almost made you melt into his arms. The simple gesture had your eyes fluttering shut, cheeks flushing with warmth, and your arms wrapping around his waist to hold onto him. He kissed your forehead again, and again, as if making up for ignoring you while tending to dinner. You fought the smile, you really did, but with every peppered kiss that landed firmly upon your face it only brought out the expression. There was no defiance in soaking up every morsel of attention, you were like a sponge that way; seeking out anything and everything and taking it all.

“You,” a kiss in that space between cheek and nose where a warm flush had begun, “can be,” another on the opposite side, “such a,” and the last on your lips. It was firm as the other, at first, a little too hard on the front of your teeth with the pressure, but it easily transitioned into a languid display. His last word was forgotten against the presence of your mouth against his own, as if you had stolen the last word from his mouth and held it captured. You let him pull you into his orbit, meeting his kiss with slow and deliberate reciprocation. You felt pliable beneath his touch; something to be moulded. The pressure on your jaw shifting slightly as he hummed softly against your mouth, taking his time to place a couple of soft pecks against your lips and then using his grip on your face to tilt it back a little more to get the angle he wanted. A curling warmth started surrounding your organs, swaddled in his hold. You took advantage, bringing the smallest amount of his bottom lip between your teeth where you could scrape at it, dragging against it gently and hearing his breath catch raggedly.

He broke the kiss. It wasn’t far, but it felt like miles away when he pulled back just a little. There was still the shared breath, his body leaning over you with eagerness, and his hands cradling your face as if you were some ancient relic requiring delicate handling. You watched him. He was starring at you, no…. Something else, something that felt so much more invasive and attention oriented. His eyes were all over you. They traced the curve of your chin, lingered on your mouth and the way it was slightly open with tingling lips. It wasn't until he was taking in the sight of your eyes, resting only on him, that it pulled a breathless smile from you. As if you needed him to look you in the eyes for any amount of life to come back into your expression.

When you noticed he wasn't leaning back in for another kiss, you rested your chin against his chest, and it allowed you to stare up at him easily. His hands leave their place on your jaw to trail higher where they stroke your hairline in slow strokes. “C’mere, no more biting. Please. I can’t go in with teeth marks all over my arms.” He pulled you in close, his arms going over your shoulders as he continued tending to your dinner on the counter. It always felt like you became something else in his arms, something more of yourself that was safe within the confines of home. “Hmph,” you sighed against his chest, nuzzling against him further as your hands slipped under his top, bunching it up slightly while resting them against his lower back. Slowly, your fingers trailed along his back in a soothing motion. They crept up, tracing his spine before falling back down again with your nails carefully digging into his skin. Not enough to draw welts, but enough to catch on the ones from a few hours ago and cause his muscles to tense beneath your fingers. "I feel like nothing is ever truly mine." you murmured against his chest. "But... I think you are. I want to see every part of you, underneath all the layers of you."

He returns a smile as the reassurance eases his mind and he adjusts, laying back down and resting his temple on his fist. He extends his other hand and you grab his wrist gently, guiding him under your top and to the point of discomfort. Your husband's smile widens with the contact of his hand to your skin and he begins to feel rough taps against his palm.

“I think he’s speaking to you in morse code,” you start, and he peers up to meet your eyes again, showing interest in what you have to say. “I think he’s saying ‘Happy Father’s Day’.”

He grins and lowers his eyes back to your belly, his hand continuing it’s circling despite your son’s seeming to have calmed down. It was as if he just enjoyed the sheer contact of touch, to feel both you and his son in a way so gentle and casual and domestic. And while pregnancy this time around was more taxing on you than the last, the little moments you’d frequently have like this in bed made it worth it — the giant, interfering belly, fatigue and thick, heavy ankles felt worth it.

With your due date closely approaching, it’s important to appreciate these moments of silence, these moments of calm before it all becomes anything but. These minutes you’d share with your lover in the morning with his hand on your bump became part of routine, it became something you’d do every morning. Quite like you hanging onto the quiet before the storm, the storm being your daughter wreaking hyperactive havoc with her awakening.

Like it was anticipated, you hear a noise from the monitor on the nightstand and you pick it up, watching your little girl crawl out of bed with a stuffie in her hand. Within a few short seconds, your bedroom door creeps open, and a short silhouette of your daughter appears through the gap.

“Morning princess,” Bucky smiles as he gestures her over.

“Hi, baby,” you, too, grin, welcoming her.

She paddles her way across the room and to your bed, small, hurried footsteps carrying her closer before she excitedly jumps between the two of you. 

Bucky grunts as he takes the brute force of her landing, though he would much rather the knee to the stomach was on him than you. “Careful with mommy’s tummy,” he reminds softly, and wraps his arms around her — bringing her to lay between so he can smother her face with kisses. 

You watch it play out, loving eyes observing the warming act. And only when it dwindles down and he stops, do you touch her. You smooth over her wild bed head and redirect her attention, nodding to your husband beside her. 

“Do you want to tell daddy what we’re doing today?” you ask, softly jogging her memory. She struggles for a moment and you get closer, whispering beside her ear. “What are we going to make for breakfast?”

“Pancakes,” she exclaims as she sits up, hands beginning to clap at the thought. 

“Pancakes?” Bucky repeats, matching her excited tone like he was entertaining her. “What are we having on them?”

“Gummy bears,” she giggles, her toothy grin visible through her animated expression. “And chocolate, and— and cream, and, and,”

“Candy worms?” you suggest and she turns silent, her head twisting slowly to look at Bucky. 

He notices her questioning glances and decides to play along, keen to humour his little girl. “That’s too far,” his head impishly shakes, pretending not to like the idea.

She mirrors your lover’s reaction, her face grimacing as he mimics a faux face of disgust. “No, mommy.”

You smile as you look between them, suppressing a laugh. “How about jelly beans?”

She takes another minute and turns to look at her dad, silently awaiting his response. He pretends to give it some thought and nods faintly, permitting his approval as a grin widens. 

Your daughter finally agrees with a nod that rather matched that of Bucky’s. Though you reroute conversation, directing it back to the subject of the special day. 

“Should we give daddy his present?” you ask, face lighting up. 

She clambers away from the pair of you and slides off the bed, heading for the gift bag on the floor beside the dresser. She rejoins you moments later with a beaming smile you have never seen shine so bright. 

“What’s this?” Bucky sits up, smile genuine and sincere as he reaches for the pink bag in your daughter’s hand. 

She giggles, watching intently despite her young age. “A doll,” she interrupts, spoiling it before he even has a chance to take it out the bag.

He pulls it out and his smile falters, trying his very best not to laugh and taint the memory. Bucky turns to meet your eyes to figure out a way best to respond, though you’re no use: the hand over mouth a visible tell you were also struggling to compose yourself. 

“That’s so thoughtful," he pauses and looks over the regifted doll. “This is from your room, isn’t it?”

She nods shamelessly. “Do you like it?” she asks, innocent eyes lit wide and huge.

“I love it,” he kisses her forehead. “Thank you, princess.” You watch as he then removes the attached envelope, a saddened grin replacing the cheerful one before as he reads over the face of the card inside — ‘I got the best dad in the world’ printed large and proud on the front beside an ink transfer of her small hand. It was really a warming sight to see him get choked up by it, rather beautiful really, to see his doubts get reassured in real time: that he is a good dad, despite questioning himself not to be.

“Everything okay?” Y/N asked, peeking over her shoulder.

Bucky crawled around his area on all fours, hands patting the hardwood. “Lost the last screw,” he replied.

Y/N glanced around her, searching for the hardware. She found it on the floor, in the corner to the right of the dresser. “Found it,” Y/N declared, placing her hands on the arm rests for leverage. She pushed herself up as BooBoo hit their grand finale at just the right moment, releasing pressure and causing Y/N to wet her pants. “Shit.”

Bucky had retrieved the screw while she was getting up. At the sound of her curse, he whirled his head, brow furrowed with concern. “Everything okay?”

“Just pissed myself getting up,” Y/N scoffed. “How embarrassing.”

Bucky pocketed the screw, rushing over to Y/N, offering her his arm for support as she headed towards the bathroom. “Don’t be so hard on yourself Sweetheart,” he said, placing a kiss on her temple as he started the water for her. “I know you’re annoyed and tired, but you’re doing amazing.”

Y/N couldn’t help but smile at the praise.

Bucky kissed her again, this time on the cheek, before crouching down and kissing her belly. “You two take all the time you need,” he said, opening the cabinet under the sink and producing a bag of shower steamers to help her relax. “I’ll finish up.”

Y/N stepped out of the bathroom, dried and belly freshly moisturized, wrapped in a towel to keep the cool air at bay. Upon reaching their bed, she noticed a neat pile folded on her side. Bucky’s favorite pair of pajama pants, which Y/N began borrowing the moment hers began to feel snug, laid underneath one of his old tshirts. Y/N picked up the shirt, fingers clinging harder once she felt how warm it was. Bucky must’ve placed them in the drier for a bit while she was cleaning herself off. “Aw Bucky,” she whispered as she dressed.

BooBoo kicked again, reminding her of their presence.

“Your daddy is so sweet,” Y/N spoke to the baby as she slipped the pants on. “He’s always doing little things like this. It’s one of the reasons why I love him so much.” Her hands found her belly again, rubbing soothing patterns she hoped the baby could feel. “I can’t wait for you to meet him.”

Knuckles rapped against the doorframe, echoing throughout the bedroom. “Can I come in?” Bucky asked.

Y/N did an about face, greeting him with a smile. “Of course.”

Bucky walked into the room, hands clasped behind his back. “I’m not interrupting anything?” His right hand wrapped around her waist, hand splayed across her stomach.

“Nope,” Y/N shook her head. “Just telling BooBoo how much I love you.”

Bucky let out a small laugh before kissing her lips. “Love you too.” His fingers lightly tapped her abdomen. “And you too.” BooBoo squirmed underneath his touch.

Y/N’s eyes focused on Bucky’s metal arm, still behind his back. “What are you up to Buck?” She said, motioning with her head.

Bucky’s cheeks flushed. “It’s kind of silly. I started filling in the bookshelves and found this.” He moved then, showing Y/N a worn book.

Y/N released her stomach, taking the book from Bucky. “Winnie-the-Pooh,” she said fondly, fingers skimming the cracks along the spine. “This was my favorite when I was little.”

“Me too,” Bucky responded, a sad smile temporarily populating his face. “Rebecca used to beg me to read it to her all the time.”

Y/N’s hand came up, cupping his cheek, thumb swiping across his skin. It wasn’t often that Bucky discussed his family; even after all these years, it was an open wound for him.

Bucky took her hand in his, giving her a reassuring squeeze. “Anyway, I saw it and was thinking about childhood. And what you said about bears and Pooh’s a bear, and well,” he shrugged. “I figured maybe our little bear would like if I read to them.”

Y/N’s heart swelled, the picture of Bucky in the rocking chair, holding their baby as he read creating a cozy sensation in her body. “I think they’d love that.”

Bucky smiled at her, then backed away, lifting the blanket from the bed. “Okay Sweetheart, lie down.”

Y/N spun around, confused. “What?”

“Lie down,” Bucky repeated. “So I can read.”

“You’re gonna read to me?” Y/N obeyed, taking her place on the bed.

“Well, yes and no,” Bucky responded climbing in next to her. He shifted down the bed, until his face was right next to her stomach. He peered up, blue eyes meeting hers, soft and pleading. Y/N understood then, pulling her shirt up just slightly, exposing the swell below. “Hey BooBoo,” Bucky’s voice rose slightly, gentler, loving. “I found a book I think you’d like. You want me to read to you?” His right hand came up, resting on Y/N’s stomach, waiting.

BooBoo answered him with a quick kick.

“Yeah?” Bucky said excitedly. “You’d like that?” He adjusted himself, getting comfortable as he flipped the book open. “Okay. It’s called Winnie-the-Pooh by A.A. Milne.”

Bucky paused, clearing his throat, and read, loud and clear. “Here is Edward Bear, coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump on the back of his head, behind Christopher Robin.”

Y/N watched as Bucky read, one hand remaining on her stomach, smile wide as their baby moved around in response to his voice. Only she got to see him like this; the embodiment of devotion and softness, all hers. And now it belonged to their baby too. Content, her fingers intertwined with Bucky’s. Her other hand went to his dark hair, stroking slowly. His voice drifted through the room, comforting, like syrupy thick honey drizzled into hot tea. Y/N’s eyelids grew heavy, her consciousness drifting.

Three chapter later, Bucky heard it, the shift in Y/N’s breathing. He looked up, observing his sleeping wife tenderly. Beneath his hand, the baby had calmed down, still moving, but not as antsy as before. “I think that’s enough for today,” Bucky whispered, sitting up and setting the book on the nightstand. He leaned down, face above Y/N’s stomach. “BooBoo, can you do me a favor? Take it easy on your mom okay?”

BooBoo wriggled, what felt to Bucky like a hand pressing against Y/N’s belly answering him. Bucky huffed a quiet laugh. “That’s my baby bear.” He kissed the spot where he believed the baby to be, lifting Y/N’s hand with caution as he tugged her shirt back down. “I love you.”

Bucky carefully moved up the bed, lying down next to Y/N. He draped the blanket over them, wrapped his arms around her, keeping one hand against her stomach. He placed a long kiss onto her cheek, lips smiling against her skin. “Love you too, Mama Bear.”

The end.

(Obligatory BooBoo and Pooh Bear gifs ahead.)

Protect the asset, retrieve the asset, do not lose the asset— ...the asset is complaining again

You didn't have much complaints yourself, HYDRA just legally assigned you to this soldier and you just immediately start acting like you've been married for thirty years.

The first week, you were already reorganizing his living space (his designated area when he's not in cryostasis), stealing his shirts (whatever comfortable part of his soldier uniform you can find), and asking him how was work (he killed approximately five men).

And the Soldier just allows it. Despite not understanding domesticity, nor is he emotionally adjusted, he automatically categorized you as authorized presence, which transformed into constant presence. Which transformed to quality time being your main source of bonding. In eerie silence, often parallel to each other, but bonding nonetheless. Oftentimes, this means painting your nails while he disassembles his rifle.

Unfortunately, as much as you liked the peaceful quiet, you weren't quite as reserved as he is. So now, HYDRA's most terrifying assassin is walking down the bunker with you often found trailing behind him. Sometimes, even the other way around when you're especially peeved.

"Oh, honestly, James! You never take me anywhere swank! Sometimes I think you've forgotten I own a Sunday dress. If I don't get out of this lab soon, I will simply wilt!"

✩

Terrified scientists nearby pretend not to hear because that's the Winter Soldier being nagged like a suburban husband, although what really gets their attention is the fact that the Soldier merely seemed mildly inconvenienced.

"I brought you with me to Luxembourg," he responded with the confused sincerity of a man who measures acts of love tactically. "You said the architecture was beautiful."

"You're a real card, aren't you?" You raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow at your towering, regular goose of a husband.

The Soldier seemed to visibly deflate. Minus the gunfire that rang those nights, he thought the night lights illuminating those cathedrals were stunning. "I could take you to Sokovia on my next mission?"

You visibly light up at the mention of Sokovia, clapping your hands together at the thought of visiting. "Oh, that would be magnificent!"

✩

His version of being a good husband is filtered through being an assassin first. Dates are had in diners in the middle of a mission, and anniversary gifts are knives and holsters that you ultimately didn't use but appreciated the sentiment behind.

He provides what he can with the resources that he has to make sure you were warm, safe, and satisfied. Meanwhile, you wanted ceremony, you wanted the yearning and the romance and the gifts!

But the Soldier's idea of thoughtful gift-giving is silently dropping a military-grade flare gun into your lap because you complained about feeling unsafe. And you swoon because that meant he listens to you. As a soldier, he listens to a lot of people, but as a husband, he absorbs your plights and acts accordingly.

But, well, of course, being attuned to him, it often left you visibly breathless, completely undone by the sheer scale of his devotion.

✩

HYDRA agents get used to this eventually after long long months of mistaking you as the Winter Soldier's hostage suffering from Stockholm Syndrome. Eventually, they stop hovering around when you'd watch the Soldier gear up for a mission.

"Don't forget your gloves, dear!" you would chirp, standing by the doorway. "You wouldn't want to look like a total roughneck at your business trip, would you?"

The Soldier grunts in acknowledgement and puts them on right before anything else. You give him a kiss goodbye before he heads out because in your mind, this is just marriage where you wave goodbye before he leaves for work. And his work just so happen to involve international assassinations.

The Soldier never thinks it, let alone verbalizes it, but he knows deep down somewhere in his subconscious, you were such a good wife. You would talk to him normally instead of like a weapon. Notice when he's dissociating. Redirect handlers before they aggravate him. Instinctively lower stimuli after missions. Heavens, you were perfect.

Which means HYDRA succeeded in giving the Soldier something stabilizing; a routine, and most importantly, a person who expects him to come back.

It works, a civilian domestic presence starts anchoring him to humanity again. They could almost let you off on cosntantly calling the Soldier "James" despite the liability you were posing. Who even authorized you, why do you have access to such classified files?

On the flipside, they didn't mean to rehabilirate him, your presence was initially just to make him manageable. But instead, the Soldier starts developing habits, preferences, protectiveness, attachment... all because of a woman who watches him return covered in soot and blood and only exclaim about the time.

"Heavens to Betsy, James!" you exclaimed as you walked over to give your dusty husband a kiss on the cheek in outraged greeting. "I was beginning to think you’d moved into the office. What did you do that kept you out so late, mister?"

"Traffic," the Soldier responds curtly as he takes off his boots. He knew you never liked when he tracked mud all over the floor. He'd already gotten an earful from that.

✩

They let it. As risky as it was, your grounding presence has made the Soldier kill more efficiently. There were less blood being spilled, and he finished missions in record time, if not earlier than expected, just so he could come "home".

“This is my job,” he’d said, smiling like it wasn’t even a choice. “I carry the bags, you pick the fruit.”

It became a ritual—your rhythm. You’d laugh when he had his arms full of groceries, flowers, and the occasional gallon of milk dangling dangerously from his metal hand, and he’d just shrug like he’d been built for it. Like this was his purpose.

He never let you carry anything heavier than your purse.

And when you married him, the habit didn’t fade. If anything, it became more pronounced. At the grocery store, he’d walk with one hand on the cart and the other on your lower back, making sure you never had to lift a thing. On trips, he’d carry every suitcase. He’d never admit it, but it made him proud—the small, quiet way he could take care of you after everything in his life had once been out of his control.

It wasn’t about chivalry. It was about love.

Years later, when Grant was three, he started to notice.

“Daddy always carries Mommy’s bags,” he said one afternoon, watching from the kitchen doorway as Bucky came in from the car, arms loaded with grocery bags like always.

“That’s right,” Bucky said, grinning as he set the bags down on the counter. “Mommy picked all the good stuff, so Daddy brings it home.”

Grant squinted, thoughtful. “I can help too.”

Bucky’s smile faltered, just a little—because Grant was still small, still a tangle of curls and chubby hands. “You can help by carrying the bread, pal. Bread’s important cargo.”

Grant puffed out his chest like he’d been given a mission from Captain America himself. “I’ll carry the bread!”

He took it with both hands, serious as a soldier, and placed it gently on the counter. You swore Bucky’s eyes went glassy.

Levi was a different story.

You had him two years later, and where Grant was careful and sweet, Levi was all fire and copycat energy. If his big brother did it, he’d do it too.

By the time he was four, the store trips became a family affair—Bucky pushing the cart, you beside him with the list, Grant walking with his small hand wrapped around the edge of the cart, and Levi a few steps behind, insisting on carrying the basket “like Daddy.”

It was much too heavy for him, of course. You’d watch as his tiny body tilted a little to the side, face red from determination.

“Levi, sweetheart, Daddy can take that—”

“No!” he’d huff. “I’m helping Mommy!”

Bucky would kneel down, careful not to laugh. “Hey, buddy. How ‘bout we do it together, yeah?”

Levi would nod, grin wide, and together they’d hold the handle—Bucky’s large, scarred hand steadying his son’s tiny one. You’d swear it was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

By checkout, the basket would be mostly empty, because Levi had passed every item proudly to the cashier, one by one. And every time, Bucky would lean down and whisper, “Good job, pal. Mommy’s real lucky to have us, huh?”

Levi’s grin would stretch ear to ear. “Yeah. We’re strong boys.”

It becomes a scene played on loop through the years.

Bucky carrying the bags. Grant and Levi trailing behind, each insisting they’re old enough for more responsibility.

When Grant turns eight, he manages to lift one of the heavier bags from the trunk. “See, Daddy? I can do it now!”

Bucky hides his smile behind his hand. “You sure can, G-man. But remember, we carry the heavy stuff so Mommy doesn’t have to, yeah?”

Grant nods solemnly. “’Cause we love her.”

Bucky freezes. He hadn’t taught him that line—but it sounds so much like something he would have said.

You watch from the porch, one hand over your heart, because how could you not melt?

Levi, now six, tugs at the strap of a second bag. “I love Mommy too!”

You have to blink fast when Bucky kneels between them, resting a big hand on each of their heads. “I know you do, boys. Best thing a man can do is show it.”

The years keep coming, soft and steady, and one day, you realize it’s muscle memory now—the way Bucky automatically takes the bags from your hands, the way Grant mirrors him, the way Levi insists on carrying something, anything.

At the store, other shoppers smile at the sight—three Barnes men juggling grocery bags while you walk behind them, a quiet kind of reverence in your chest.

Levi still tries to carry the biggest one, grunting as he does. Grant keeps offering to take the eggs because “they’re delicate, just like Mommy’s hands.”

Bucky just laughs and musses his hair. “You smooth talker. You’ll be trouble when you’re older.”

“I’m learning from you,” Grant says innocently, and Bucky nearly drops the paper towels trying not to choke on his own laugh.

That night, after the boys are in bed, you find him in the kitchen, unpacking the last of the groceries.

He doesn’t even notice you at first—just moving through the motions he’s done a thousand times, sleeves rolled up, jaw relaxed, the kind of domestic calm that makes your throat ache with love.

“Hey,” you say softly, stepping into his space.

He turns, eyes bright and blue. “Hey, doll.”

“You know they’re watching you, right?”

He quirks a brow. “Who? The boys?”

“Yeah. They’re watching everything. The way you talk to me. The way you love me.”

He goes still, and for a moment, he looks almost shy. “Guess I better keep doin’ it right, huh?”

You smile, reaching for his hand. “You already are.”

He squeezes your fingers, brushing a kiss to your knuckles. “Can’t help it. You’re my girl.”

A week later, you come home late from work, and before you can even reach the door, you see them through the window—Bucky and the boys unloading groceries from the car.

Grant carries two bags, careful and balanced. Levi, smaller but determined, struggles with one nearly his size. Bucky walks between them, guiding their steps, murmuring encouragement with every few feet.

You stay there for a moment, hands pressed to the glass, watching the man you love and the two little boys who mirror him in every possible way.

Three matching smiles. Three sets of strong hands carrying every weight that matters.

And when they finally reach the door, Bucky looks up, catches your eye, and grins.